VIOLENT/NON-CONSENSUAL SEX WARNING/DISCLAIMER: It is a story portraying a Conqueror/slave relationship, so it would appear non-consensual at first. As for sexual violence, there are scenes (In parts 3 and 4) which are detailed and graphic, and may not suite some readers.

Lord Conqueror of the Realm

Written by WarriorJudge

Part 4

Three winters came and went, since the Campaign in Gaul and the night of the slave's branding.

In those days, the Conqueror's madness for her slave neither lessened nor subsided. Her moods, in regards to her slave, moved erratically like a pendulum, between unfathomable fury and utter indifference.

When driven by fury, the Conqueror didn't spare her arm. She would take her whip, her belt, her crop or any other thing close at hand to her slave and would beat and lash her with it. At times she would revel in her slave's tears, but other times she would rage at the sight of them. Sometimes the Conqueror would either bind the slave's hands or tie her up completely during service. However, on other occasions she would leave the slave to brace herself with nothing safe or steady to cling to.

The Conqueror was easily capable of terminating her slave's life with a single blow. One wouldn't have known it by looking at her raging face, but when she beat her slave, she was never entirely out of control. On the contrary, she was in control of her wrath and mastered her faculties. Her hands were steady; the strikes she delivered were very precise. She never broke any of her slave's bones nor did she leave any scars on her skin. She never left a mark that wouldn't fade away after more than several days. It was as if the Conqueror delivered her brutality onto the slave in order to extract some clandestine secret, some hidden reaction she thought her slave was denying her.

The Conqueror's actions weren't motivated by lust alone, but also by the notion that any foolish affection she had for the golden-haired slave would bring about the ruin of her empire, an end to her reign. Some days she wanted to end both their lives and others she wanted nothing but to softly embrace the young woman and shower her with gentle kisses. A slave cannot own their master, the Conqueror firmly believed, and this slave relegated her Master into a wild animal, a raving monomaniac, because she felt and because of how she felt – not capable of restraining tender thoughts she had about a piece of property.

The slave observed and absorbed her Lord's measures and proceedings, with silent obedience. She would quietly submit to her Lord's desires, and served her just as she always had. She never offered any resistance, nor voiced any grievances for all her Lord's degrading cruelty. She noticed the shifts in her Lord’s moods, to be sure, but could not understand what had changed since the time before Gaul and the time after. Eventually, the slave convinced herself that perhaps during the campaign in Gaul, her Lord had simply acquired other tastes during her various exploits.

And there was possessiveness, of course, which was an unerring inciter of the irate Conqueror. The Conqueror's jealousy that seemed to stem out of nowhere was limitless. Whenever she had an occasion to catch her slave showing kindness to another, the Conqueror would do her very best to arrest within her the tyranny of darkness, which was constantly searching for the flimsiest of excuses to volley forth. More often than not she would succeed knowing she was capable of snuffing the life out of her slave with no effort. Other times, the Conqueror would take the slave savagely and threaten to put a tent in the military drilling field, have her slave placed naked there with nothing other than support for her back, and order her soldiers to take their turn with her. The threat, naturally, never came to fruition, for the Conqueror would never allow another to lay a finger on what was hers; but was affective, as the horror in the slave's eyes and the quivering of her chin could attest to.

One night a young lad carrying with him some urgent message that needed to be conveyed came to the Conqueror's chambers, whilst the slave was servicing her Lord. When she gave him permission to enter, the slave immediately covered her nakedness with a blanket, but not immediately enough in the Conqueror's mind.

The Conqueror dragged the surprised slave by her hair, and ordered the lad to follow her. She swiftly strode down to the palace dungeon, the frightened lad running behind her in an attempt to keep up.

In the dark and dank holding cell, the slave saw a pillory. The pillory consisted of hinged hefty wooden boards that formed holes through which the head and hands were to be inserted.

After she had placed the slave’s head and hands in their suitable place, the Conqueror locked the boards together to secure the captive, leaving her to remain standing and exposed in a bending position.

When raging jealousy was upon her, what shred of humanity the Conqueror possessed evaporated like dust in the wind, and all that remained was the body, a machine, operating on its own accord, driving her forward to quell the voices inside her that chanted "Mine! Mine! Mine!”

The Conqueror’s large hand landed with immense impetus on the slave exposed rear cheek and loosed a yelp of agony out of her mouth.

“Who owns this?” the Conqueror asked, still cupping and pulling at the fleshy taut globe.

“My Lord?!” the slave didn’t understand what she was instructed.

“Tell the lad who owns this, and don’t make me repeat myself,” the Conqueror demanded louder than before and pulled at the flesh she was grabbing harder.

“You, my Lord.”

Another harsh spank landed on the other cheek soon after, leaving a stinging sensation at impact. Not giving the slave a moment to recover, the Conqueror’s wicked, powerful hand delivered a series of slaps to the exact same spot, leaving sizzling handprints over the slave’s white flesh.

“Then you shouldn’t have displayed what’s mine, should you?” the Conqueror admonished her and planted another hard almighty slap on the slave’s buttocks that caused her assaulted flesh to ripple with the sheer force of it.

“Did you think you could seduce the boy and allow him in here?” The exacting hand resumed the heinous unabated smacks to the slave’s buttocks, not giving her a chance to compose herself in between strikes.

“No, my Lord” the slave’s voice was trembling with faint sobs. There was no reasoning with her Lord and no point offering denial to appease her Lord. An odd notion passed through her mind then: how terrible and cruel it was that her Lord was so beautiful and so impressive.

The Conqueror relished her handiwork, which was the seething red flesh against her palm. “Why not?” she asked, taking her crop and shoving its handle into the orifice she enjoyed best.

When the slave felt the cold rigid handle slithering into her, she began shuddering in absolute panic like a leaf in the wind. “Because I belong to my Lord, and only my Lord can use what’s hers,” the slave replied in anguish, trying to placate her tormentor.

“Bring me the wax and a torch,” the Conqueror ordered the young messenger.

Without keeping his Master waiting, the lad brought the required items with due diligence.

“Hot wax is quite effective in causing pain, but even more effective when poured on beaten flesh,” the Conqueror explained. “The lower the point of origin, the hotter and more painfully burning it is.” The Conqueror positioned the bar of wax over the flaming torch, which she held not two inches above the sore and bruised flesh. Washing in the flickering flames of the fire, she was watching the red wax as it was slowly melting away and waited for the first drop to hit its mark. The sight of the red wax dripping along the girl’s rear valley, securing the crop handle within her slave, aroused the Conqueror. She moved from behind the slave, came to stand in front of her, and inserted her phallus into the slave’s gullet.

Cringing, the young man was forced to bear witness to the slave’s chastisement and to the Conqueror forcing the slave to swallow the warm liquid of her release and dispensing it all over her face, wetting them completely.

“She will remain here, exactly as she is now until this time tomorrow,” the Conqueror ordered and left the dungeon.

The following night, two guards released the slave from the pillory and left her there to her own devises. They knew better than to touch her, and she had to remove on her own the Conqueror’s crop from the place it had been lodged the night before. Another thing happened that night. The Conqueror had moved her from the pen and into a minor plain chamber, no bigger than a prison cell, with a large window not far from the Conqueror’s suite, where the slave had a pallet, a stool, a small table and some garments.

The slave wasn’t summoned for service for a fortnight after the night in the dungeon.

During those years, the slave recognized a pattern. It was only after the nights on which her Lord took her violently that a considerable amount of time elapsed before she would be summoned again.

What the slave didn’t know was that after such sessions, the Conqueror would spend day after day practicing her war skills, riding her mare or exhausting herself with matters of state to arrest her yearnings for the slave. She would spend night after night alone in her bed denying herself the company of her slave until she could regain control of herself, knowing full well there was no point in trying to take pleasure from another. No one other than her slave would do; no one other than her slave could fully sate her the way her young beatific slave could.

Only after the Conqueror was convinced that the wall around her had been secure again and her anger had dissipated did she ask that her slave be brought to her, and then the Conqueror would keep her demands basic. She wouldn’t have the girl in her presence longer than was needed, and the slave remained with most of her garments on during service.